Satinalia
by MisfitPaperMage
Summary: A post-Awakenings tale. After the siege of Amaranthine, Alessar Tabris heads to Antiva City, seeking the one who left him behind: Zevran Arainai.
1. Arrendajo

**Satinalia, Part I: Arrendajo**

_The Plaza of Lions, the first evening of Satinalia. I will find you._

Alessar realized his hand was trembling slightly as he read and re-read the note. Taking a deep breath to collect himself, he let the parchment fall to the bed, where it landed on top of the small chest it had accompanied. It mattered little that the note was not in his grasp, however; he could close his eyes and see that single line of text, the hand so achingly familiar, burned into his eyelids.

_Finally._

A messenger had intercepted him not long after he arrived in Antiva City. He had expected contact of some sort – from the Crows if not from Zevran – and had not been disappointed. Of course, that was assuming that "Zevran" and "The Crows" were separate entities at this point... What _was_ going on here?

He had come for answers, to that and to other questions harder to put into words, but that first, brief message, also in Zevran's fine script (did Crows train in penmanship? He'd never asked...), had asked him to wait, to lay low. That seemed sensible enough; he was a foreigner, after all, and one who would very likely attract all the wrong kind of attention if his identity became known. Better to keep quiet until his lover (...if they were still to be considered such, after so long...) decided the coast was clear.

And so he had, keeping mostly to his rented room above a weavers' workshop for the past five days. He had a window that looked out onto a small market square, and that view had provided him with a tolerable way to pass the time. Never too proud to earn his keep (or, in this case, to at least defray some of his expenses), he'd also helped the weavers – two middle-aged human sisters, and the daughter of the elder sister – compile some of their rich dyes. Unsurprisingly, many of the materials the Antivans used were different from what Alessar had grown up with, and he had found the work interesting, much to the amusement of his landladies.

But even if these labors helped the days to pass faster, the nights crawled by. All of the questions he managed to push aside in the daylight hours came flooding back, seemingly with more in tow each night. First and foremost was, _how long must I wait?_ It had been... difficult... in Amaranthine, not knowing if Zevran was even alive and well, but now, knowing he was somewhere in the same city and not being able to see him... It was an entirely new level of frustration, whipped together with a high degree of anxiety into a maddening froth.

Today had finally brought something different, a break in the pattern: another forgettable messenger – a human boy who could, and did, disappear into a crowd at will – had brought him the chest and the note. _Satinalia_. That was only four days away. The tempo of the city had already increased as preparations for the festival got into full swing, and now Alessar had the most compelling reason of all to look forward to the revelry.

But the Satinalia was a riot of masks and madness – and Antiva's festivals were legendary. It was, naturally, a perfect time to meet someone clandestinely, but how did Zevran intend to find him?

_Ah. Of course._ His eyes fell to the chest, a small treasure in and of itself even if it were empty. Carefully setting the note aside, he admired the box's delicate embellishments – patterns of twisted silver wire inlaid into the dark wood – before flipping up the catch and opening it.

His breath caught in surprise. Oh, there was a mask, just as he had expected, and there seemed to be garments beneath it, as well. But the mask itself...

He picked it up gingerly. It was a bird mask, made of shaped leather, with a long, straight beak that would jut out a good hand's-length beyond his face. Most of the surface of the mask had been painted, but tiny feathers surrounded the eyes and covered the top half of the thing before giving way to longer, more striking feathers at the edges. The markings, mimicked to outstanding effect by the unknown artisan, were immediately recognizable to Alessar, although he wasn't sure if such birds existed in Antiva.

It was a laughing jay, colored in white and black and rich blue-gray – colors that he preferred, and Zevran, of course, would be well aware of that. Now very curious about the rest of the ensemble, Alessar gently set the mask down and pulled out the bundle of clothing lining the bottom of the trunk.

First was a pair of dark gray velvet trews that looked to be close-fitting – well, that was appropriate, to mimic a bird's legs. It was also appropriate for Zevran's tastes in clothing... Alessar stubbornly pushed that thought away as he picked up the other garment.  
It was a silk tunic, its base color the same blue-gray of the mask's feathers. The sleeves had been made extremely long, and would reach past his knees when he wore the thing, but half of that length had been cut into "feathers" that would drape from his wrists, suggesting wings. Black bars had been dyed or painted onto the "feathers", just as on a jay's wings, and the tip of each "feather" had been painted white and then dusted with something silvery to draw the eye. The effect, particularly with the mask, would be quite literally fantastic.

_Maker's Breath! How much must this have cost...?_ the elf thought as he held up the tunic, his amazement only growing the longer he looked at it. _I'm almost afraid to wear it._

But wearing it was how he would finally find Zevran... or more likely, how Zevran would find him. _So much for laying low!_ he thought ruefully, although from what he'd seen in the market, and in the weavers' shop, extravagance was the name of the game for Satinalia. His new costume might stand out for its unfamiliarity, but certainly not for its richness.

He had no doubt now that Zevran would be able to find him, even in the midst of the festival crowds... but... what would come after that? The possibilities, spanning from foolishly optimistic to heart-stoppingly terrifying, nearly made him dizzy as he carefully folded the costume back into the trunk. Underneath those swirling thoughts, however, two phrases drummed a refrain, steady and simple as a heartbeat.

_Satinalia. The Plaza of Lions._

_-_to be continued_-  
_

_

* * *

_Author's Note:

Hmm. Some imagery that crossed my mind. This should be in no way considered "canon" for Alessar's story, not anytime soon, anyway. ;) Maybe it will be some day, who knows? I'm just a bit loathe to nail this down as absolute fact without knowing if there will be further storyline with our DA:O Wardens...

(If one is somewhat familiar with birds, there is anare extra layers of meaning here that Alessar is not aware of... and a big thanks to barkingM1 on the BioWare boards for adding a few. XD)

Dragon Age: Origins, the setting, and, of course, Zevran belong to BioWare and their wonderful writers.


	2. Fénix

**Satinalia, Part II: Fénix**

As the sky began to darken, the crowds in the streets grew thicker and thicker. By the time Alessar stepped outside, there was the faintest hint of light still in the western sky, and the throng had gotten positively intimidating.

He had grown up in the largest city in Ferelden, but Denerim paled in comparison to Antiva City. In his time here, he could see how this place had shaped Zevran, Crow training aside. A certain _joie de vivre_, to steal an Orlesian phrase, seemed to mark all who lived here. Even if life was difficult and times were hard, there was always _something_ to celebrate and be thankful for, even if it was simply the fact that you'd lived to see another day. It seemed to dovetail with Zevran's philosophy of taking pleasures where they could be found.

_Like in the madness of a Satinalia night?_ the Fereldan elf thought with a tinge of nervousness. He had heard plenty of anecdotes by now – many of them amusingly ribald – and at the moment he felt approximately the same as if he were going into battle unarmed. He didn't know the "rules", if there were any such things, and the last thing he wanted to do was give offense...

And, of course, beyond that, there was always the threat of danger lurking in disguise. He knew from Zevran's stories – and it was also plain common sense – that the Masked Nights were utterly perfect for assassinations. Never _literally_ unarmed, Alessar wore two daggers at his waist, not an uncommon or alarming accessory in this city; another small dagger was tucked into his right boot, with a fourth sheathed on his back, under his tunic. He was as prepared as he could hope to be, wandering into unfamiliar territory, but he felt horribly vulnerable without his armor. It was nerve-wracking.

He was trying hard not to show it, but as he made his way to the Plaza of Lions, he was sure he still looked like a foreigner, a Southerner come to sample the delights of an Antivan holiday. At least that gave him an excuse to look around and keep an eye out for potential trouble. Ostensibly he was simply gawking at both the revelers and the elaborate decorations everywhere; there were garlands of greenery and flowers, painted lanterns, and brilliantly colored blown-glass globes hanging from every window, doorway and lamppost. Some of the little bundles of flowers hanging about, he'd been warned, had a particular meaning: people crossing under the _muérdago_ together were supposed to kiss. He'd already seen a few "victims" laughingly dragged to a nearby sprig of the plant to properly adhere to the custom. With both parties masked, Alessar had to wonder if these people knew each other, but if they didn't, well... that seemed to be part of the spirit of the festival.

The crowd around the plaza seemed to be cheerfully inebriated, in the main. He began to make a slow circuit of the area, trying to fight back his growing sense of anticipation. He couldn't afford to assume anything at this point about Zevran's feelings, or the assassin's reasons for summoning him here; all he knew was that Zevran had written those notes. He was here in the city, somewhere... Alessar _would_ find him. As far as he was concerned, the plea to stay out of sight was null and void if Zevran did not appear tonight.

The Fereldan elf received more than a few appreciative catcalls and whistles for his costume as he walked along the edge of the plaza, each of which he answered with a smile before moving on. He received several overly familiar gropes, too, but could never pin down the culprit, since most of the witnesses nearby laughed at his discomfited reaction when he looked around in surprise. He narrowly avoided being dragged under the _muérdago_ on three occasions, although one elven woman, masked as one of the fearsome striped cats of Rivain, was agile enough to lick his ear as he tried his best to gently extricate himself from her grasp.

She and her friends – another pair of elves, a man and a woman – had clearly gotten into the spirit of the festival already. The man, his eyes brilliant green behind his eagle mask, offered Alessar the flask they'd all been sharing before he'd been snared. If he hadn't seen them drinking from it, he would have refused – wouldn't _that_ have been a merry trap? – but he figured it was safe enough, and his nerves needed a bit of soothing. Cautiously, he took a swig, and was rewarded by the sweetness of _sangria_, red wine flavored with various fruit. The astringent aftertaste of pomegranate made him think of Zevran again, and he glanced around as he handed the flask to the woman who had accosted him.

The second woman, who wore a fanciful butterfly-like mask, said something to him, smiling, but his understanding of Antivan was severely limited, and he couldn't quite grasp her words. Something about singing? Perhaps it was a jest on his costume, he wasn't sure. He shook his head and smiled ruefully. "_Lo siento, pero no comprendo..._"

The three Antivans laughed, and the first woman leaned closer to him. "She asks if the laughing-bird sings," she translated, her Fereldan heavily accented, but understandable. "I say, maybe with enough _sangria_ he will, yes?" Without waiting for his reply, she spoke to her companions, apparently repeating her comment in Antivan. This brought on another round of laughter, and Alessar found himself smiling. If he were free, he might have lingered with them – he got the impression they were definitely looking for a fourth – but he was bound by other obligations, other promises.

As he began to clumsily make his excuses to the trio of merrymakers, he felt that all too familiar prickle on the back of his neck, the sensation that he was being watched. Was the attention hostile or friendly? He struggled to hide his sudden alarm as he bid the elves a good evening, saying he had to meet someone. Cat-mask pouted prettily at him before dissolving into laughter again. "If your friend is not... interesting? Come find us again, yes?"

Alessar flashed her a grin he didn't really feel. "Of course," he agreed, giving her a courtly bow (which drew some applause from a few onlookers) before turning away. He resumed his circuit of the plaza, feeling himself growing tense despite the little splash of _sangria_. The sensation of eyes upon him was quite bad enough, but when combined with the riotous crowd and his apprehension about the upcoming encounter, it was enough to set his heart beating far faster than it should have been.

He was playfully courted by several other revelers, men and women both, but he dared not linger, and, he realized, he probably was too flighty and distracted by now to seem like good company for the evening. Only one of these seemed inclined to be persistent: a human man in a gold-painted sun half-mask who laughed at Alessar's seeming reticence and caught the elf's arm as he tried to back away. His grip was not tight, but Alessar caught a glimpse of dark, tattooed curves beneath the collar of the man's shirt, and suddenly pulled away with an unseemly amount of force.

The man stared at him from behind his golden mask, and Alessar stammered an apology as he edged away. Given that his attention was focused primarily on his would-be suitor, it was no surprise that someone else found this an opportune moment to strike.

A gloved hand closed around his right wrist, and he whirled desperately, his free hand going to the dagger on his belt. _A distraction and an ambush?_ he thought grimly. His assailant anticipated the maneuver and pinned his left hand to prevent him from drawing his blade, but made no other move to incapacitate him. At a momentary impasse, Alessar looked up at his attacker's face.

At first, his only impression was of _fire_: a fanciful bird mask, feathered with the colors of flames, red and orange and gold, dusted with flecks of what seemed to be real gold, or some other metal. The smile beneath the mask was achingly familiar, but it was the eyes – amber, brighter than he remembered – that ensnared him.

"Greeting your beloved with knives, _cielo?_ How very Antivan," Zevran murmured, relaxing his hold on the other elf's left hand. His grin was lazy, relaxed, but his eyes burned into Alessar's, a year's worth of longing in that stare.

"_Zevran,_" was all he could say, his voice barely above a whisper.

The assassin reached up to Alessar's ear, his fingers lightly brushing over the golden earring with its sapphire drop. It was virtually impossible to see at the moment because of his mask, but Zevran knew it was there, or that it used to be. After finding this bit of confirmation, the Antivan elf smiled more broadly, and did not remove his hand. "We seem to have garnered an audience..."

Alessar looked around in surprise, and indeed, a number of passers-by had paused to watch the tableau between the pair of brilliantly-plumaged "birds" – Zevran's clothing was, of course, tailored to match his extravagant mask, and the two of them must have looked striking, indeed. Some of the onlookers were shouting exhortations, and while the Fereldan elf didn't know the exact meaning of the words, he got the gist of them. Meanwhile, the man in the sun mask seemed to have melted away into the crowd. Had Zevran seen that exchange? Had he overreacted for no reason, or –

His train of thought was broken as Zevran gently pulled him back around so that they were face to face again. "You _do_ remember how I feel about an audience, yes?" the assassin said with an impish grin. He tilted Alessar's mask slightly askew and pulled him into a kiss, and for a few moments, the world fell away.

._fin_.

* * *

Author's Note:

Ergh, the second part of this bit of whatnot. Again, no commitment that this will ever be part of Alessar's canon storyline, but at least it's out of my head now. This is a bit rough, but I don't know if I'll ever bother neatening it, since it's of dubious importance. XD

Dragon Age: Origins, the setting, and, of course, Zevran belong to BioWare and their wonderful writers.


End file.
